


Dealing with your Devil

by sexywiddlebaby



Series: Monopolis [1]
Category: The Derp Crew
Genre: Alternate Universe, Business, Gen, Monopoly (Board Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 08:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13163535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexywiddlebaby/pseuds/sexywiddlebaby
Summary: Steven, an upcoming business enthusiast, goes for a meeting with Chaos (Chilled), leader of the Chilled Chaos Consultancy Firm. Things don't exactly pan out as intended.For Char.[025] [Secret Santa]





	Dealing with your Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Charlottes_Sinbin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlottes_Sinbin/gifts).



> I got writer's block approximately three times writing this, but I want this to go on for longer. This potentially will be a series.
> 
> And that's it for the Secret Santa burst. Back to being inactive for months. ;)

“Welcome, welcome! Please, take a seat, Sir…?”

“Oh, no need. You may call me Steven.”

Steven assumed his place on a new and stiff leather seat that was tucked neatly into the curvature of a dark, varnished table. It was there for no typical function—conspicuously clear, except for a few legal documents in a neat pile on the other side—but rather a statement of power. He felt thoroughly misplaced merely laying sight upon it, and instead averted his gaze to the rain steadily falling through the night skies.

“I was rather surprised to learn of your visit, Steven. My investors tell me no tales of a man such as yourself, and yet, here you are in my office, with not as much as a  _name_ and  _ambition_. I’ve heard this kind of bullshit before. You’ll be different from the last, and all you need is time to procure profits, and you ask for my patience. Well, Steven, I have little of that, unfortunately.

“You see, I understand the gripes of new players in the business, as I was sat in your seat barely years ago, looking for the same chance. I want to tell you something, Steven. I never got granted it.”

He took a thick and worn book from a shelf behind his desk. “His name was Page, and he was a notorious sort. Sir Page, who I’m sure you’re already familiar with, was a well rewarded fluke. He entered the world with nothing more than $1,500 and an unhealthy vision to monopolise the city. He survived on a scary series of events.”

He perused the contents. “First came the  _Taxi Strikes of 1985_ , which made getting around for the everyday significantly more difficult. As the workers’ demands became more and more unrealistic, and the days grew bitter and angry, the public forgot about them. Page was already developing four railway lines to run underneath the city—his father had the connections to make planning permission a breeze—and the customers came at a time of crisis. And, when 1986 dawned, the taxi service filed for bankruptcy.

“Page was unsatisfied with it, and sold it later that year at a great gain. His interest shifted to buying small plots of lands and opening modest inns, which would later grow into hotels. This doesn’t seem out-of-the-ordinary until he began trading property with well-established businesses. He always wanted to own all the land of any street he developed on.

“When the late 90’s arrived, Page held millions of dollars in net worth. Suspiciously, his old train lines began to fail, and guests in his  _luxury apartments_ noticed the cracks of the walls and the locked-up safety hazards. It was a warm June morning when I went to deliver him the accountancy report that we noticed he’d fled. He was so absolutely fearful of his golden streaks wearing out that he chose to abandon everything.

“Naturally, I was told to fill in a few of Sir Page’s roles, having worked hard under his roof for the best part of five years after being told I wasn’t going to cut it. It was not an easy adjustment to make. But I seized control of his doomed establishments. And now you sit here, in  _my_ consultancy firm.”

Steven watched him replace the book and stand with his hands clasped near the window. “It is for that reason, Steven, that I do not trust in those with such minor credibility. I despise foolish dreams.”

Steven’s suit seemed to shrink around him. The golden plaque bearing  _Chaos I_ bored into his soul, searching for answers: why did he think coming here was a good idea in the first place?

“Have you already given up, then?” Chaos asked suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your visions. Are they what drive you?”

“Partly, I suppose—I thought I was meant to be delivering a proposal here?”

Chaos shook his head and tutted. “All exchanges we make are two-way. Isn’t it more unusual to come in and expect to have no conversation at all? How do partners grow and invest if no bond can be made between them but money?”

“From how it sounds,” Steven seethed, “you couldn’t care less about that side of it, since you hate any man who dreams.”

Chaos furrowed his brow. “I see nobody told you about basic personal conduct. How rude and ignorant of you.”

For an uncountable number of seconds, noise was distant in the office. The lighting was no longer warm and inviting, but sickly and nauseating; the smiling portraits adorning the walls peeled away their facade of happiness and revealed contempt and vitriol.

“Not all of us are the same, you know. Dreams aren’t a thing you box or contain or can mass-manufacture. They’re rare,” Steven continued, trying to stay afloat the tension, “and you only think everyone has them because you think everyone in the city will come to see you.”

Chaos stiffened on the spot.

“If you don’t want to deal business with living, breathing humans, then be my guest. I’ll never contact you again. You can take your prospects with you to the grave.”

With shaky legs and a flutter in his voice, Steven rose and pulled the door open. Chaos dropped his glass when he heard it shut firmly. And then, he rushed to his desk and held the button for his telecom: “Lock the doors, Tom. There’s someone coming downstairs that I don’t want to leave yet.”

* * *

Tom placed his phone down and hesitated for a moment. Guests and investors were milling around the entrances, and such a drastic action would be sure to set off questions and general mutiny. Perhaps there was a better way…

He noticed Steven seconds later, hurrying down the plush carpeted stairs like he was being followed by a horde of wasps, and he beelined straight for the revolving doors. Tom had to act now.

_“Stop that man! He’s got my wallet!”_

In the confusion, a security guard of smaller and stronger build battered into Steven, and they coalesced into a heap on the floor. Steven struggled on the floor as the public around them gasped and froze, and Tom calmly strode to the scene and assisted in escorting him into the interrogation room.

* * *

“Please, have a seat.”

“What the fuck was that?” Steven shouted. Carpet marks were burned into his cheek and arm, and the security guard swayed back and forth on his feet, trying not to look guilty. “I’m not talking to you without my lawyers.”

Tom pouted, and then nodded to the guard. “Then we have nothing to say.”

Steven’s body language tensed when he realised they were leaving. “Where are you going?”

“Outside, until you’re ready to talk.”

Steven watched the door close and lock in front of him, and the sounds of Tom and the guard plodding away echoed farther and farther away.  _The nerve._

He dusted himself off, and inspected his surroundings. Grey walls, peeling paint, cracks climbing up from the dusty tiled floor—it positively screamed boring. His only comfort were the rocky chairs and his cue cards that survived the rough and tumble. The intense artificial light made them difficult to read:

__‘Royal Vikings’ is the fastest growing hoteliers in Monopolis since 1990, with a new three-star hotel every year._ _  
_Looking to expand into southern territories for greater business opportunities and company development._  
_Share in profits offered for use of land._

A wave of cold shame crashed over him. The notes breathed naivety. Why did he think it would be so easy to walk in there and come out with a multi-million business deal?

He stared at the ceiling and fixed his sights on the light bulb. A moth carelessly smacked into it and fell onto his knee. He frowned and let it try to recover peacefully whilst he considered an escape route. They wouldn’t come back for ages yet, Steven thought, and he padded around the room more closely.

On slower investigation, Steven’s fingers glided over an unnaturally straight crack in the wall. It differed from the others by cutting deeper into the brick, and the coincidence of two being parallel to each other was too good to be natural.  _Hmm..._

He frantically clawed at them, hoping they would slide or shift somehow, but nothing budged; instead all he achieved was making his fingers sore.  _Maybe…_

And then he pushed softly against it, and the wall moved with him. The inconspicuous door swung open to reveal a dark and dingy thin hallway, leading into nothingness.

_Should I stay, or should I go?_


End file.
